“Reuben Tarz. Do I detect a hometown Brooklyn accent?”
For the first time, Max Arthur Gould looked up into the handsome stranger’s eyes. “Yeah. But how did you know? You don’t have one yourself.”
“I’ve been in France for a while.” Reuben said. “But I’d know that accent anywhere. I grew up in Brooklyn.”
Max Gould took a second look at the stranger. He wasn’t a flatfoot, that was for sure. He’d detected a slight limp as he’d watched him cut through the crowd. Must’ve been the war, he decided. “You a vet?” he asked curiously. Reuben nodded. “What’s your game?”
Reuben pretended to take his time. What did he want? “A little information would help. About this town, you know, what makes it tick. A job, money, action…whatever.” He swung around and ordered a second beer he didn’t want. As he ignored Max and concentrated on the beer, he felt the little man studying him.
“I got a table in the back. Follow me and we can talk. This racket is driving me crazy.”
The minute they were settled at the private table, Max got down to business. “You’re a pretty beefy guy. You look like you can handle yourself.”
Reuben looked over to an open doorway. “You mean like those two muscleheads you got doing double duty?”
“Yeah,” Max said softly.
“I’ve done my share both in the war and in Brooklyn.” Reuben looked hard at the little man to make sure he’d made his point.
Max Gould always prided himself on being able to read people correctly. What he thought he had before him was a classy young man who knew a little more than how to put his tie on straight—which as he glanced at the handsome man’s neck he realized was done to perfection. A perfect Windsor knot.
“Look, I run a good business here. I make money. The people that work for me make money. Everyone is happy. Money,” he said, leaning across the table, “is the name of the game. Money is power, but you know that already, don’t you, Tarz? How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” Reuben lied. “But you didn’t bring me over here to ask me my age. What’s your angle, and don’t tell me you don’t have one. Everyone’s got an angle.”
“Relax.” Max laughed at Reuben’s brashness. “If you’re looking for some part-time work, I can accommodate you.”
“What’s the setup?” Reuben asked. He liked the turn of the conversation.
“A few pickups. Sometimes a few deliveries. Your share is 1 percent of whatever you pick up. A bonus at the end of the month. If you have to sit on someone, you sit; you’re sure as hell big enough. But maybe you don’t want to get your nice clothes dirty.” Max grinned.
This was exactly what he needed to get him by during the next few weeks. He wanted time to settle into this place, get to know it and feel comfortable without being desperate for money. The two thousand dollars he and Daniel had looked like a small fortune now, but he didn’t want to get caught with his pants down.
“Let’s talk turkey,” he said.
For thirty minutes they discussed Max’s possibilities and Reuben’s availability. It came down to maybe three pickups a week. Two, maybe three bucks a night and a ten-buck bonus at the end of the month, providing everything went all right. If he was careful, he could send Mickey fifty dollars the first of every month. “I’m in” was Reuben’s final comment.
“If you don’t mind my askin’, what kind of…daytime work are you in?”
Reuben started to itch. Lie or not lie? If he lied, the little man was apt to find him out. If he told the truth, he might decide he could do without him. A gambler at heart, Reuben stared down at Max. “I just got here straight from France. I have a letter of introduction to the head of one of the studios. I guess you could say I’ll be working there, doing what, I don’t know: but this much I do know, one of these days I’ll be the head of one of these studios. Anything else?”
Max almost laughed until he looked into Reuben’s eyes. The bugger had admitted to not having a job, yet he truly believed what he’d just said. He stood up and stared at Reuben. For the life of him he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He decided to believe everything Reuben had told him…except his age, of course. If his instincts were right, this guy might be someone to keep handy.
A buzzer sounded somewhere nearby, and Max told Reuben to sit quietly. He watched, bug-eyed, as cups were emptied and refilled with steaming coffee. His cup was snatched quicker than he could blink. The transformation from speakeasy to sleazy supper club was the slickest, quickest operation he’d ever seen. He found himself grinning and mockingly saluted Max, who had risen and was jittering around the entrance.
He continued to watch in admiration as Max put the police officers through their paces. First he offered a table for two in the back of the room, followed by the services of two shapely, friendly waitresses in scanty uniforms, who proceeded to fawn and tickle both men under their chins. Out of the corner of his eye Reuben saw a man part a curtain. Instead of the gun he expected to see, a flash went off, and he laughed. He decided this was as good a time as any to leave.
“Leaving already? I hope you enjoyed your coffee,” Max said, waylaying him at the door. “You won’t believe this,” he whispered, “but those two creeps are on the take and still they put me through this. Every second I’m a supper club I lose money. I been takin’ pictures, though. Got them by the balls that way. City hall might be interested someday.”
Reuben laughed. Max couldn’t help but ask, “What would you do?”
“Squeeze!”
Max’s full-bodied laugh followed him out the door.
“Gangsters! I don’t think Mickey would expect you to hang out with gangsters just so she could be repaid,” Daniel said anxiously when he’d heard about Reuben’s evening.
“Don’t worry. If you could have seen how smooth this operation was, you wouldn’t give it a second thought. Look, you know it takes all kinds to make this world spin. I didn’t just fall off the tree now, did I? I know what’s going on, and I’ll be careful. If I keep my mouth shut, not give Max the edge, I think I can work and pay Mickey off. Who knows, later on it might pay even more. This is for now.”
A lot of things were for now, Daniel decided. He’d voiced his thoughts; the rest was up to Reuben. “I’ve read through the papers, and I’ve got some addresses for schools and studios. And everything’s ready for tomorrow—I got the landlady to press our suits.”
“We’re going to spend the next couple of days getting to know the territory,” Reuben said. “I’ll take the studios and you take the schools. But tomorrow you’ll come with me to test the waters. Fair enough?” Daniel nodded his agreement. “We’re on our way, Dan’l! You nervous?”
“Like a cat in the rain.”
It was one of Hollywood’s better days, with the sun shining down on busloads of hopeful actors and actresses trundling their way to their dreams. Sun was important to those struggling to make it in the sinful city. It was easier to accept rejection when the day was ripe and golden.
All these nameless men and women—“the hopefuls,” as Reuben had begun to refer to them—believed the myth. Just keep plugging along in the land of magic; there’s fame and fortune at the end of the dusty path.
It was a twenty-minute ride to the studio, and Reuben did his best to breathe through his mouth. He hated the scent of unwashed bodies, stale perfume, and the greasy hair pomade that everyone seemed to favor.
“Thirty seats on this bus, Reuben,” Daniel hissed, “and fifty people.” Reuben laughed. Daniel always counted. They’d been here only a few weeks and were soaking up the atmosphere on a daily basis. Daniel was being tutored by a college professor who had come to Hollywood to become a star, and Reuben had established a good working rapport with Max Gould, had even been invited home to sample his mother Rachel’s noodle pudding, but only with the understanding that he not mention business; she thought Max ran a delicatessen.
Reuben and Daniel had scouted Metro Pictures, Universal Studios, and Fox Film Corporati
on; the last studio had been Paramount. Today they were on their way to Fairmont, Daniel to gather as much information as he could and Reuben to see the big man Sol Rosen. He patted the letters in his breast pocket: he’d need them.
His thoughts turned to Mickey. What was she doing right now, this very minute? he wondered. Was she thinking about him? If he was in her mind and in her heart, then everything else was bearable. A man could accomplish anything when he had someone to go home to at the end of the day—or the year, he thought ruefully. Or maybe the decade? As always, when he thought of Mickey, Bebe insinuated herself into his thoughts. Today would tell the story. Getting a job at Fairmont was his way of turning the knife…in Bebe. She wouldn’t get away with what she had done to him and go on her happy, meddling way. His goal was to be in her face at the first opportunity—and in a position of power. He only hoped she’d stay away long enough for him to get there.
When the bus crunched to a halt outside the studio gates, Reuben hung back, letting the crowd stampede by. Then he and Daniel looked at each other, their glances anxious but exultant. This was the day they’d been working toward.
Fairmont’s studio lot was huge but unkempt, debris strewn all over. The guards at the gate were dressed sloppily, unlike the natty snap-to-attention men in uniform at the other studios. The buildings here were in dire need of paint and outside maintenance. The actors and actresses, with the exception of Fairmont’s one big star, Clovis Ames, were as third-rate as the studio itself. The casting directors appeared unprofessional and sloppy. The clods directing the calls looked like recruited farmers to Reuben, although most of them had New York accents and talked out of the side of their mouths. An odd combination of traits, he mused, wondering if they were Sol’s relatives.
Reuben mounted the seven steps that would take him to the studio head’s office. In his mind he wasn’t sure if he should approach Sol Rosen as studio owner or as Bebe’s father. He decided to play it by ear. Sometimes rehearsed speeches and introductions came out flat and phony.
A middle-aged receptionist with spectacles hanging off her nose looked up at Reuben’s entrance. His unusually virile good looks had the usual effect: her hand shot up automatically to pat her crimped and polished hair, and she smiled coyly. Reuben thought her round circles of rouge clownish. He smiled, the practiced smile, showing just enough strong white teeth.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“Reuben Tarz to see Mr. Rosen,” he stated, and handed her the sealed envelope.
“I usually open all the mail, unless it’s personal. Is this personal?” the receptionist simpered.
“Yes, it is. It’s from Madame Fonsard in France. I’ll wait while you give it to Mr. Rosen.” He watched as the woman sashayed her way into what looked like Rosen’s inner sanctum.
Reuben immediately began to study the waiting area. It was almost bare. Three straight-back chairs that looked uncomfortable as hell, the receptionist’s desk and chair, a waste-basket, and a dusty plant that stood in one corner. A crooked picture of a bowl of fruit on one of the walls. The place resembled a room in a mission house. Where was the glitz and glitter he’d expected? Nevertheless, he felt a quiver of excitement. Potential. The place had potential just waiting to be tapped. It had all the right ingredients and obviously no one at the helm.
Reuben was almost glad his vision was impaired when he entered Rosen’s office. Even before he stepped through the door he’d known that this office would be an extension of the waiting room outside. In the blink of an eye he categorized it as early prop room and the man sitting behind the desk as vintage prop room.
Sol Rosen stood and waddled over to Reuben in shoes that were too large for his feet. A fat, smelly cigar was clamped between his teeth. He was stocky, pugnacious-looking, and sported a nose that could be described only as a honker. Spiky gray hair stood on end, looking as though it hadn’t been combed or brushed for days. His gray suit was unpressed, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie full of stains. Reuben knew the man’s neck was dirty without having to look and could bet he’d worn the same shirt three days in a row.
Rosen worked the cigar around to the opposite side of his mouth with his tongue. He didn’t bother to remove it when he spoke. “What kind of work you looking for? Times are hard here at the studios.”
Reuben blinked in disbelief at the whine in the man’s voice. He was about to say something until he looked into Rosen’s eyes—the same incredible green as Bebe’s and just as calculating. Always start high, something told him. If you start low, you sink.
“Something in the front office. Managerial. A liaison, if you prefer,” he said coolly. He doubted the man even knew what the word meant.
Sol Rosen gave a horsey laugh. There was no amusement in the sound. “Do I look like I need a leezon?” he croaked. “I run this business myself. You start hiring people to take over and you end up out in the cold. They snatch the goddamn rug right out from under you. I might—and this is a big might, mind you—be able to give you a couple of days’ work as extras. You interested?”
Reuben didn’t have to think about his answer. “No. I don’t think that was exactly what Madame Fonsard had in mind for us when she wrote you the letters you’re holding.”
“You telling me you read these…these personal letters?” Rosen blustered.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” Reuben said smoothly, his eyes never wavering. “Madame Fonsard read me the letters before she sealed them in the envelope. She expects you to give my partner and myself suitable employment. She said if you couldn’t see your way clear to doing as she asked, I was to cable her immediately.” Reuben turned as if to leave.
“Hold on, not so fast. What’s so special about you and your buddy? And where the hell is this buddy of yours?”
“He’s here at the studio checking things out,” Reuben informed him. The men stared at each other. Rosen took a step backward and Reuben smiled gently.
“Why’s she putting the squeeze on me like this?” The obscene-looking cigar shifted to the left side of Sol’s mouth.
“Your daughter was a real handful, Mr. Rosen. But then, that’s why you sent her to France, wasn’t it? Madame read me your letter, the one where you implored her to take care of Miss Rosen? She put all her affairs aside to do as you requested—and before you can ask what my position was, I ran the winery in Bordeaux.” Reuben’s stomach tightened when he thought of what he had just said. None of it was untruth—especially about how Mickey had put all her affairs to one side when Bebe arrived. “Madame Fonsard took me into her confidence because she trusted me. She said you needed someone in your offices that you could trust. That’s why I’m here. But if you’ve got no place for us…” His hand reached out to open the door before Sol called him back.
“Hey, you, wait a minute.” Reuben turned around, a friendly smile on his face. Sol sighed. “Let me see what I can work out here. Come back tomorrow morning around ten, you and your…partner. I’m not promising anything. You content to chew on that for the time being?”
“I’ll hold off sending the cable, then, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Rosen. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.” He held out his hand, but Sol turned his back and shuffled across the room to his desk.
When the door closed behind Reuben, Sol sat down heavily and tried to light his soggy cigar. Finally he gave up and took a new one out of a dusty box in his bottom drawer. He bit off the end and spit it across the room. “What chutzpah!” he muttered. Right this goddamned minute that arrogant shit was walking away thinking him an alter kocker. “Bullshit!” he exploded, puffing away at his newly lit cigar.
Sol unfolded Mickey’s letter and read it several more times. It was worded cleverly, but he wasn’t stupid. He correctly interpreted the implied threat. Either he gave these two jokers jobs—jobs that paid decent money—or she would start to take an active interest in her half of the business. Marchioness Michelene Fonsard owned 51 percent of Fairmont Studios. A very willi
ng silent partner who, up until now, had never asked for an accounting, never interfered with how the business was run, and never made demands.
His ass would be in a sling if he didn’t comply with her request. He couldn’t help but wonder how much Mickey had told the man who had just left his office. If he was her lover, which he probably was, then he knew everything. As he contemplated this assumption, Sol got a jittery feeling in his stomach.
He was grateful to Mickey for saving his hide, but only when it was convenient to be grateful. He’d come to Los Angeles because his wife hated the junk business he’d run on Chicago’s South Side. With her incessant complaining, she’d convinced him that their fortunes could be made in the movie business. They’d soon found out that the capital from the sale of their junk business wasn’t going to get them anywhere in the new boomtown called Hollywood. It had been his wife’s idea to go to France and talk to her cousin Mickey. Sol had been able to convince Mickey that a fortune was there for the making in the up-and-coming motion picture industry, and she’d invested handsomely. Actually, she’d contributed almost three-quarters of the capital needed, but on paper they were almost equal partners. Within two years Sol had repaid her a quarter of the money he owed. And until this letter, she’d never mentioned the business. Oftentimes he’d wondered if she was interested at all. Now he knew she was.
In the beginning, when the studio was operating in the red, he’d sent quarterly reports. But when the numbers switched from red to black, he’d developed a bad memory. When Mickey made no comment about the fact that she no longer seemed to be receiving any reports, he felt safe skimming off the top. If his memory was accurate, he was now about three years behind in his reports to Mickey, even longer with his payments.
An inch of thick gray ash from Sol’s cigar dropped to his chest. He sat bolt upright in his swivel chair as a horrible thought hit him between the eyes. Tarz was a spy! Mickey had sent him to spy and report back. Somehow he’d weaseled his way into her bed, a young stud, and like all stupid women she’d spilled her guts, and Tarz’d seen a good thing staring him in the face. It was probably his idea to come here and smell things out. Goddammit!
Sins of Omission Page 28